I rolled my eyes, then nodded toward the vendors. “I know you're hungry. What would you like?”
Cyn's eyes lit up as he lifted his head enough to look around. “I don't know. What do you like?”
“This way.” I led him past sellers hawking fresh fruit and vegetables, used clothing, tools, leather, and potions, searching for my favorite food vendor among the vibrant stalls. “There he is.”
I led the King to a little stall with smoke wafting up from a central stove to billow around the edges of the tarp strung above. Around the travel-stove, rickety tables held prepped ingredients and a few bags of the finished product. Durg looked up from his cooking when we approached and grinned.
“Ru!” He left the rice to simmer and went to the table of prepared food. “Chicken or beef?”
I looked at Cyn.
“Beef,” he said.
“One of each, please.”
“You got it!” Durg grabbed two paper bags and handed them to me.
I fished out two coppers from the King's pouch and traded them for the bags. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy!” Durg went back to his pot of rice.
“Here.” I handed the King a bag. “Durg makes the best lashkab. You can try some of mine if you like.”
“How do I eat it?” He peered into the bag.
I lifted the thin piece of wood stuck into the rice mixture in my bag, then used the wide end to paddle up a bite and fling it into my mouth.
“Ah.” Cyn tried it. Then his eyes widened. “This is amazing!”
“Yup. We have some of the best chefs here.”
“I should hire that man to work in the castle.”
“Shh.” I looked around to make sure no one had heard him. “You can't say things like that on the street.”
“Sorry. But he should be cooking in a fine kitchen, not some street stall.”
“And then we wouldn't be able to enjoy his food.”
He went silent.
“Rugs from Zaru!” a vendor called. “Trinkets from the land of deserts!”
“Steel mirrors!” another shouted. “Hardy mugs! Get your metalware here!”
“Oils! Nuts oils to cook with!”
I led the King through the lanes formed by stalls, stopping here and there to purchase supplies for the apartment—flour, butter, eggs, raw meat, and veggies. The heat from the stalls and the shoppers wafted around us with the exotic scent of cooking food and spices.
“Oh, oranges!” Cyn whispered. “Let's get some.”
I grinned at his excitement, took his free hand (the other was carrying our groceries), and led him over to the fruit seller.
“Good day to you both.” Jed opened a paper sack in preparation for our selections. “What can I—oh, Ru! Hello.”
“Hey, Jed. We'll take six oranges, please.”
Jed leaned in to whisper, “I've got strawberries. Freshly picked from the royal gardens.”
